


King of Fire, Queen of Blood

by nickahontas



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin
Genre: Ghosts, Resurrection
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-23
Updated: 2020-01-22
Packaged: 2020-05-16 22:27:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 6
Words: 13,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19327354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nickahontas/pseuds/nickahontas
Summary: A vengeful ghost by the name of Elia Martell takes things into her own hands.





	1. Chapter 1

Something breaks within Elia Martell when skinny Arya Stark shoves her sword through a stable boy. Men taking children, as Rhaegar took Lyanna. Men killing children, as the lions did her own.  
But this. _Children_ killing children.  
She follows the girl, watches as she eats pigeons and sleeps in sewers. Her chest aches as she stands her silent vigil for the daughter of her enemy, for Lyanna Stark reborn with a direwolf named Nymeria.  
The dome of Baelor sits high above the slums of Flea Bottom. Fittingly blocking out the moon with its ostentatious audacity. Elia Martell seethes at the gods. How dare they allow this?

The next day, a child kills a man and the realm purges into the hell of war. Elia follows the other Stark girl, this one more like her father. More like Elia.  
The Princess of Dorne curses herself, curses the gods, and damns the Lannisters. She rushes down through the Red Keep, further and further into a darkness worse than death.  
  
The ghosts go silent as the witch passes through. Even the living sense something amiss. A chill, they whisper, Ned Stark come to haunt them. Ned Stark will not haunt their city. He was a soldier prepared for death, not a mother that watched a Lion tear the life from her children. Not a witch slighted centuries ago.  
Elia holds her head high as the ghosts, royal and peasant alike, gape at her with betrayal. Their pale bodies are interspersed with the living. Some flee, more gasp, and a small few grin. Yet they all freeze as Tyanna of the Tower comes to stop beside Brandon Stark. He is a feral wolf.  He is not as muted as the others watching. His full lips pull back into a snarl as they approach.  
Why did she not marry him instead? Why had she wanted to be a queen so badly? Drab Winterfell would have been a mercy.  
“FUCK. OFF!” He roars.  
Two ghostly knights reach for either of his shoulders. Their solemn faces betray their own anger and helplessness. They would gladly die again for the innocent girl bleeding naked before the Iron Throne.  
Tyanna shakes her head. “I mean your cub no harm, Wolf.”  
She lifts her skirts and kneels beside the Kingsguard. He shivers and scowls over his shoulder. The witch pays him no mind. She dips her finger into blood on his sword and pops into her mouth. Her thin brows raise.  
“Oh no. No harm at all,” the witch murmurs. Then louder, “Wake me again when the battle comes, on the night of fire and blood. Come, wild one. We have work to do.”  
Brandon Stark shoves out of the knights’ grasp and into the thrall of a sorceress. Elia watches them go, wondering if she has made a mistake.  


* * *

  
Sansa huddles in the stolen cloak. The wildfire casts a sick sheen to the night, the men’s screams a cacophony of death. She shudders and peers up at the ghost beside her. Uncle Brandon does not tower over her as he did when he first came to her a year ago. He smirked and laughed as she grew and told her she was a Queen of Winter.  
He does not glow as he did then either. He will not tell her why. He will not tell her why they are here either. The Sept of Baelor looms over them, a sentinel of falsehood in the night.  
“Am I to enter?” She asks.  
“No,” he says. He turns to look at her. “I love you, Sansa.”  
“The lone wolf dies,” she murmurs.  
“But the pack survives,” he answers.  
His hands hover over her shoulders. He cannot touch her, not truly, but she feels him all the same.  
“He...” her uncle falters, the first time he has ever done so. She frowns with concern. “He is not a wolf, but he will brave the cold winds with you all the same.”  
“Who?” She asks. “Uncle, why are we here?”  
“It is time,” He says simply.  
“For what?”  
His wild storm of a grin takes over his face. It is her favorite grin. It’s the one he wears when they are on the hunt together. “Winter has come, niece, and you are its queen.”  
He strides off to the sept, pausing just once to throw an order at her. “Raise Little Rickon to do me proud.”  
Tears sting at her eyes, but she nods. She will ensure her wild little brother will be wilder than the Wild Wolf. She watches as he struts off, his steps lighter than she’s ever seen, and she waits. Nothing except for the morbid symphony of the battle to keep her company.  
Then, it begins.  
The blast of a cannon masks the first of the screams. They rise higher and steadier and suddenly, a swarm of people crash through the doors. Black smoke billows out behind them. They cry and yell as they fall down the stairs like her father’s head. She cannot bring herself to pity them.  
She watches as they flood the streets, running every which way. She watches as the flames and the smoke wrap themselves around the Sept like lovers. She watches and she waits.  
The Sept is a temple of death when it is over. Black and burning, even more macabre under the green haze from the still raging battle. The street is silent and still. Unnatural. Goosebumps rise on her skin.  
He is a flash of light in the darkness, a glint of silver in the smoke. Sansa steps out of her alcove and into the street. He throws his head back and stares up at the sky, frowning at the strange haze blanketing his city. He studies it, then stares at the Keep the longest time until another cannon blasts. He startles, nearly falling down the stairs. Sansa moves as though to catch him, only to find herself wavering.  
She cannot see his face. She can only see his short silver hair and golden frame, as naked as a newborn. He cannot see her, she realizes. The cloak is massive and tattered. She shoves the hood back without a thought. She stares, unabashed, as he makes his way carefully down the stairs. It seems to take an eternity for him to reach her.  
He is handsome, with purple eyes and a strong nose. His beard is thick and pale and his torso is littered with scars. He might be nearing his thirties, perhaps similar of an age to the Hound. She stares at him and he at her until another boom of a cannon echoes so loud it jars her bones.  
Sansa unclasps her cloak. He takes it, but does not put it on. He only stares at her.  
“Come,” she says. “We must hurry.”  
Still, he only stands and stares.  
“We must leave now! I have clothes and a blade hidden for you.”  
Sansa curses to herself, then does something she swore she would never do. She reaches out to the strange man and tugs at his hand. His touch does not itch at her like others do. It is warm. Familiar, even.  
She drops it as though burned.  
“Who are you?” He asks, his voice a deep rumble. It raises the hair on the back of her neck.  
She straightens her spine and throws her shoulders back. “I am Princess Sansa Stark of Winterfell. Blood of the First Men and Daughter of the Kings of Winter. Who are you?”  
The man’s heavy, pouting lips pull into a feral smile. His teeth are white and straight and put her in mind of a wolf. “I am Aegon Targaryen of Dragonstone, Blood of Valryia, Father of Kings, Conqueror of Westeros and Rider of Balerion the Black Dread.”  
Sansa’s stomach somehow drops to her feet and rises to her throat all at the same time. Her heart thunders as loud as the cannons outside the walls. He smiles even wider and throws the cloak over his shoulders.  
“Come, _Princess_ ,” he says, taking her hand in his his. “Take me to this blade you speak of. You will explain what the fuck is happening to my kingdom on the way.”  
Though his hand dwarfs hers, though his eyes burn with dragonfire, Sansa does not feel fear. She feels nothing but the wild song of the North singing in her veins.


	2. Chapter 2

Sansa tells him of Joffrey and Stannis and Renly and Robb. She tells him of Rhaegar and Lyanna. She tells him of the mad king. He listens, his light brows furrowed in concentration. At sunset, he pauses under a great oak tree. They have ridden through the Kingswood for a night and a day. Her thighs are blistered and her mouth is dry, but she perseveres.

His lavender eyes scour the area before he nods once and dismounts. Then he lifts her from her mare as though she were a child.

“How old are you?” He asks.

“Seven and ten,” she answers.

He nods. “Tell me more about the Mad King and his son.”

So she follows him around as he finds a stream. She tells him while they drink their fill and wash off as best they can. He waves for her to sit beside him as she finishes her tale. Finally done, she takes a long drink of water.

“Is that where you’ll go? To Essos?” She asks. A dragonrider would surely go to the ends of the earth for even the whispers of a dragon.

He shakes his head. “I did what I meant to do. I conquered a continent and created a legacy to rule over it. I may help this daughter of mine when she comes but I will not yet go to her. Now, turn around. We must cut and lighten your hair.”

She hesitates. Already she must dress in leggings and tunics and her nails are frighteningly short. Sansa has never been a Lyanna or an Arya. Courtesy is her armor and beauty is her weapon. How will she survive when those are taken from her too?

Aegon rolls his eyes. “I had two sister-wives that also happened to be dragonriders. I am well versed in styling hair. It must either be long enough to braid or short enough to keep from knotting when you fly. I’ll not ruin it. I’ve done it a thousand times before.”

She bites her lip, but she knows there isn’t a choice. If short hair is what it means to be free of the Lannisters, then so be it. She turns her back to him. He pulls her braid tight and saws with his dagger.

“Rhaneys liked her hair short,” he says as he works. “She was always a bit odd. Frivolous.”

Her heart flutters when the weight of her braid is gone. Loose red waves fall just past her chin.

“Did you love her?” She asks, running her hands through her new hair.

“Not as I loved the war,” he admits. “And she did not love me as she loved flying.“

He checks his handiwork, pausing to cut off any long strands and even any gaps. She shudders when his fingers brush her skin. Sansa Stark has learned to be weary of a man’s touch.

“Alright, then,” He says. “Lie back and put your head in the stream.”

“No.”

He stops, obviously unaccustomed to the simple word. He stares at her with those lilac eyes. They are the only vulnerable thing about him. She rather likes that, though. He does not try to hide how hardened he is to the world. It puts her in mind of the North.

“I can wash my own hair.”

“Lie back.”

“I can do it.”

“No you can’t. You must scrub the soap in evenly or you will be cursed with mottled hair or a bleeding scalp. Now, lie back or risk having bald spots on that pretty little head of yours.”

She lies back.

She does not doubt the soap could turn her bald. It stings and burns and itches. Seven hells, does it itch. When it is done, Aegon scrutinizes her appearance.

“You have the Stark face,” he mutters. With a frown, he reaches over to part her hair to the side. “Much better.”

It takes every bit of control not to spit something terrible back at him. It’s impossible to keep from stomping back to their clearing. She lies on her bedroll and pulls the strands that will reach forward. It is as yellow as a Lannister’s.

Aegon is silent for a dragon. His feet make hardly any noise. She only knows that he has sat when the fabrics rustle and by the whisper of leather as he unsheathes his blade. The grind of the whetstone sounds clumsy. Ice was graceful even in its maintenance.

“Tomorrow night you will learn to use a blade,” he says, breaking through her thoughts of Father and the Godswood.

She flips over to gape at him. “What?!”

“You have been abused. I can see it in the way you tense when I approach you. I will teach you to wield a blade. You would never fear a man again.”

A thousand denials fly through her mind, but none of them are right. They taste wrong in her mouth. The metallic shriek of the whetstone seems to fight against each one, declaring each of them false. Instead, she offers a truth that she has mulled over for more than a year. “A sword would not have made a difference in King’s Landing.”

Your landing, she thinks.

“No,” he agrees. “A sword should not be the only weapon in your arsenal but it should not be undervalued. Visenya taught me that.”

“Did you love her?”

He considers her question. 

“What do they say about us?” He finally asks.

“You visited Visenya once to every five times you visited Rhaenys. That Rhaenys had many lovers and Visenya only wanted you.”

He smiles faintly. “Visenya was more of a sister to me than a wife. She never envied Rhaenys. And I never envied Rhaenys’ lovers. I worry that I did not love either of them enough.”

“I do too,” she whispers, thinking of a melancholy bastard and a girl always underfoot.

They lie in companionable silence. Eventually, he switches to oil and a cloth.

“I couldn’t get Ice,” she confesses. “I wanted to, but I couldn’t.”

Aegon stills. “They have Ice?”

“I watched them cut off my father’s head with it.”

“I’m assuming it was not won in combat.”

“They ambushed Father in the streets. Outnumbered his men. When the Kingslayer could not defeat him easily, a Lannister man shoved his spear in my father’s leg.”

“Disgusting.”

She hums noncommittally. Not very ladylike, but it isn’t very ladylike to wear tight trousers and sleep with a strange man. “Brandon said the Kingslayer did not approve, at least.”

“I know another Brandon from Winterfell that must be turning in his crypt. But no matter. Sleep, Sansa Stark. We ride at first light.”

 

Sansa spends the weeks riding and learning. She learns the basics of swordplay. It is not fun-not at all like dancing as he claimed. It is useful, however, and Sansa is nothing if not pragmatic now. She learns to set a trap, make a fire, and use the stars as a compass. Best of all, she learns High Valyrian. Aegon promises to teach her to read it when they reach Winterfell. An odd sense of warmth overcomes her when he says that. She thought he would leave her at Riverrun.

She learns to breathe again. After weeks alone on the road, she does not tense when he raises his hand to take her reins or mess her hair. She does not hide her smiles or her questions. He does not call her stupid when she asks them. He has plenty of his own. She trades Northern lullabies for Valyrian nursery rhymes. She tells him about Bloodraven and the Red Viper and he describes the strange, exquisite clothes his sisters and cousins wore.

He holds her when she awakes from dreams of her grandfather burning or her father’s head bouncing down into the crowd. He listens when she tells him about Littlefinger’s lingering glances and Pycelle’s examination. He wipes away her tears when she takes her first life, when she confesses that it made her feel good.

It is a long, hard journey, but he makes it all the better.

 

Finally, they arrive at Riverrun. Her first thought is that is more traditional than Winterfell, but Winterfell is thousands of years old. How could this castle set any standard for one built by Bran the Builder? Aegon and Brandon have put her heritage into a unique perspective. Though the North swears fealty to the Iron Throne, it is truly a world apart from the other five kingdoms. Dorne is the only other land so difficult to assimilate.

“Who goes there?” A voice bellows from atop the wall.

“Aegon Targaryen, First of his name,” Aegon yells back. Sansa shoots him an amused glance. On the road, he was Aegon Waters and she was Elia Flowers.

“And I am the Maiden Fair!” A decidedly more northern man shouts. It sounds suspiciously like an Umber.

“I have Sansa Stark,” Aegon counters.

The gates go silent. While they deliberate amongst themselves, Sansa rakes her mind for memories of the Umbers. Unfortunately, the Greatjon was always so drunk it will be miraculous if remembers any of them.

Sansa sits straight in her saddle and clears her throat nervously. In a loud, clear voice, she calls, “Arya bit your nose on her eighth nameday when you said you were going to steal the feast for yourself.”

A moment passes. Aegon raises a brow from atop his steed. She shrugs.

Suddenly, the clanks of the massive gates ring through. She breathes a deep sigh of relief, her shoulders slumping just the slightest bit.

A moment passes and another. And before she’s decided, Sansa spurs her mare on and maneuvers her through the barest sliver of openings. Her moving dismount is a feat of athleticism she could have never managed before Aegon.

Grey flashes and her back is on the ground. Grey Wind is heavy and his kisses are sloppy, but he feels like home. She wraps her arms around his neck in an embrace. She doesn’t let go, even when he rises.

“SANSA!”

Catelyn Stark falls to her knees in the courtyard. There are more lines on her face and her hair is greying at the temples, but she is still beautiful. Sansa dashes to her mother, nearly knocking her into the dirt when she throws her arms around her.

Suddenly, another body crashes into them. Lavender and soap and pine fill her lungs all at once. It is only then that Sansa lets herself collapse into sobs. She is with her pack. She is home.

 

Robb is a king, which means Sansa is a princess. Her homecoming is arduous and public. After numerous questions about Arya, she’s shoved into a war room. Figurines and books litter the table and the walls are covered with maps and bits of parchment. The river, as blue and wide as the sea, sparkles through the open window. She turns away from it. The view is too similar to the Red Keep.

Lords and three ladies shuffle in while she is pushed into a chair beside Robb’s. She jumps out of it as soon as Aegon appears with three guards at his back. Sansa crosses the room in three strides, eyeing his tall frame with worry. She forgot about him in all of the excitement.

She spins to face her brother. “Please Robb, this is unnecessary. He saved my life. He-“

“Who is this man?” Robb asks. It is his king’s voice, harsh and unyielding. It is what Joffrey tried so hard to accomplish.

You are a daughter of kings, Uncle Brandon would say.

Sansa raised her chin. “This is Aegon Targaryen the First. My savior and dear friend.”

A beat of utter silence passes. Even the river seems to pause.

Robb opens his mouth twice before he manages to speak.

“Sansa, this is not the time-“

“I watched the flames eat at the Great Sept. I heard the shrieks and saw the people push past one another, toppling down the stairs like Father’s head. I felt the ground quake when it collapsed in on itself. I watched him walk out the doors reborn.”

Robb clenches his jaw, resettles his weight in his seat. Joffrey did that before he met out punishment. She leans back until she can feel Aegon’s heat at her back.

“If he is Aegon the Conqueror then where is Balerion the Black Dread?” Lord Bolton asks drily.

Aegon’s reply is calm and confident. She can practically hear his smirk. “It took the blood of a hundred men for the resurrection of a conqueror. What would a god among beasts require?”

Before anyone can respond, he continues, “I do not care if you believe me. All I ask is a chance to fight.”

“Why?”

“I love nothing more than war.”

Lord Karstark shrugs. “If he wants to kill some Lannisters, let him.”

“How do we know he is not a Lannister?” A woman asks. She has olive skin and a slightly accented voice. A foreigner, then. A very pretty foreigner standing far too close to Robb.

“You accuse me of bringing a Lannister into my brother’s camp?” Sansa asks softly.

The girl cringes. “I did not- I only meant-“

“You are betrothed to their king,” Lord Bolton cuts in, just as dangerously quiet.

“Lord Bolton!” Robb protests.

Behind her, Aegon inhales sharply.

Without a word, Sansa begins to unlace her vest with deft fingers. Robb turns as red as his hair, protesting whatever it is he thinks she will do. She turns her back to the table. Aegon catches her gaze, holds it with his own. Just like Uncle Brandon did. Your blood has ruled for eight thousand years. She doesn’t know which one whispers the words in her mind.

Never lowering her gaze, she lifts the back of her shirt up as far as her breast bindings. She lets them have their look, nosy old crimes that they are. Then, she spins and glowers down at each of them. She stares at Bolton the longest. The flayed men feared the direwolves once. They would do so again.

“The only thing I want from Joffrey is his head,” Sansa declares. Then, less confidently, “I want to be the one to do it.”

Greatjon laughs. A few men join in, but the Mormont ladies do not even blink. They lower their head in acknowledgment. Robb mercifully shares their respect.

“Sister, it is one thing to hate someone and another to take their life,” he says gently.

Sansa’s lips pull up into a sad smile. “Robb, do you really think I spent almost moon’s turns on the run without killing?”

He looks as though he might be sick. “Sansa, you should never have had to-“

“And why not?” She asks with a frown. “I am a direwolf as much as you. Why should I not crave the taste of blood as well?”

If anything, she should crave it more. She walked among the corpses of their household. She witnessed the murder of their father. Saying so would be detrimental to all that she hoped to accomplish, so she kept her mouth shut about it. Instead, she waited politely for a response.

The door creaks open and Lady Catelyn enters. If she notices the tense atmosphere, she does not let it show. “Your Grace, I imagine the princess and her guest would be grateful for a bath, a meal, and a feather bed.”

“Yes, of course,” Robb says. He nods farewell to them both. “I believe Ser Aegon will be fine without an escort. Dacey, I would have you guard my sister for the time being.”

‘And watch the mad man’, remains unsaid.

“Not a ser,” Aegon adds.

Sansa bites her cheek to keep from laughing. Sandor Clegane and Aegon the Conqueror would be the best of friends.

“Pardon?” Robb asks.

“I am not a knight. I don’t follow the Seven.”

“What is your title then?” Robb counters, a bit snappish.

“I suppose I am the rightful Lord of Dragonstone.”

Someone behind them makes a choking noise. Sansa decides to intervene before one kills the other. She wraps her arm in Aegon’s and smiles at him the way so many court ladies smiled at handsome knights.

“Come, Lord Aegon. I fear our stench is clouding their judgement.”

He raises his eyebrows in amusement. “Assuredly, Princess.”

Lady Catelyn wrings her hands nervously as she follows them through her childhood home. King’s Landing has corrupted her good, gentle daughter. What has it done to the wild one?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if this timeline is right but tbh this fic isn’t my priority. I’m just super inspired by the story and want to get it out.


	3. Chapter 3

Sansa falls into a routine. She meets Aegon in the training yard at daybreak. They break their fast together afterwards. Then she goes to pray in the Godswood. Never the Sept, despite how her mother’s lips thin. She spends her days helping the maester and charming the bannermen. She eats with her family and retires early to bed. Always, she watches.

 

On the third evening, she notices Grey Wind is nowhere to be found. She calls down the table to her brother. “Robb, when will Grey Wind return from hunting?”

“He’s not hunting.”

“Then where is he?”

He speaks to his plate. “He is not permitted in the Keep.”

“Why?”

“He makes some of the men uncomfortable.”

“Good. We are direwolves, not roses.”

“We are also royalty, Sansa,” her mother says kindly.

“Do you think Tywin Lannister would put away a lion he was bonded with because it made his men uncomfortable?” Sansa argues.

Everyone freezes as if time has stopped. Uncle Edmure can not even manage to close his mouth or lower his fork.

“Tywin Lannister is not a king,” Robb bites out in the silence.

“Only because he does not want to be,” Sansa retorts. “Anyway, why not let Grey Wind serve as a guard of sorts for me? I do miss Lady so.”

“We’ll get Cersei back for that, lass,” Greatjon assures her.

“She wanted to make a cloak of her fur. Lord Bolton, did your ancestors not wear their enemy’s skins as cloaks? I think I might try to bring it back into fashion. Do you think flesh is difficult to embroider?”

“Sansa, this is hardly appropriate,” Catelyn says, pretty lips thinned into a line. Sansa worries that they will soon disappear.

“Forgive me, I did not intend to make our battle hardened guests uncomfortable.”

“You have Dacey and Brienne to keep you safe,” Robb says, massaging his eyes.

“Yes, but they surely have better things to do. And I have terrible dreams. I think Grey Wind’s presence would help at all night.”

Finally, Robb concedes with all the enthusiasm of a weary father. The conversation picks up slowly. Sansa watches and listens as they eat and talk. Lord Bolton does the same. He would do well in King’s Landing, she thinks. They would make a formidable pair if he could be trusted.

“I’ve heard an interesting rumor,” she says. The men eye her and her brother with wariness. “Is it true that Sandor Clegane abandoned King’s Landing during Blackester?

They all deflate in relief.

“It seems so,” Lord Karstark answers.

Sansa sips her wine as she mulls it over.

“I would like to know if we manage to capture him. He was kind to me in his own way,” she says.

Robb frowns. “The Hound? Kind?”

“He saved my life twice that I know of. He also cared for me when my captors would not.”

He taught me that monsters are beautiful and nothing in the world is inherently good or evil. She likes that her house color is grey. It’s fitting in a way, though she wouldn’t mind a bit of black to go with the white. Her gaze flicks to Aegon dining with the Mormont soldiers. Perhaps a bit of red would do as well.

“Doing the right thing is hardly kind,” Lady Catelyn says.

“Perhaps. I would still like to know of his fate.”

Robb shrugs. It is perhaps the easiest request she has made yet.

 

Two days later, Robb marries the nurse. Sansa’s mental state takes an apoplectic turn. The men in the war room kneel awkwardly. They assumed their king had taken a lover, not a wife. Certainly not a wife who brings nothing to the war except trouble.

Sansa does not kneel. She watches as her brother’s eyes darken with her betrayal. Only Aegon stands, ever her friend.

“Sansa. Talisa is your queen,” Robb says sharply.

“She is my death and nothing more,” she snaps.

“I am your king! Do you deny it?”

“Of course not-“

“So when your king says vows of marriage before a septon-“

“A septon?”

Even she did not expect that. Nor would she have ever thought him to be so stupid as to admit it. The Northmen glance at one another uneasily. As if the argument was not awkward enough!

Robb takes a deep breath. “A septon was nearby, nothing more. We will renew our vows in front of a heart tree when we reach Winterfell.“

“And how will we manage that without the Twins? Lord Frey would not let you pass without a marriage and now you have taken that from him. You have betrayed your vows, Robb Stark. What would our father say?”

Talisa tries to speak up, but Sansa silences her with a glare. Robb manages to take his sister’s impudence in stride. “I will make new offers-“

“I will not marry a Frey.”

At that the lords sigh and shake their heads. They rise from their positions and take their seats. It will be a day for the books.

“It is your duty as princess, Sansa,” Robb says.

Many cruel things come to mind. She could insult her brother or belittle him. She could make herself a martyr. As satisfying as those would be, they are all things Cersei Lannister would do. True success comes from cruel subtlety. Dramatics are only acceptable when victory is guaranteed.

“Your Grace, I would like speak with you alone.”

It is rare that Sansa uses his title. She shows him the deference and respect required of a king, but she does not pander to his ego. Partly because she knows he likes it and partly because she is wary of kings.

Her words have the intended effect. Robb waves, a command for his men to leave. Aegon only obeys after Sansa silently assures him that all is well. In the end, it is only Sansa, Robb, and their mother. Lady Catelyn hovers uncertainly near the door.

“No, mother. I’d like you here as well,” Sansa says.

Catelyn nods, as grim as her husband once was. She takes a seat beside Robb’s elaborate chair. He collapses into it as Sansa takes the one on her mother’s right. The three of them are quiet for a moment, reveling in the privacy and silence. Once, very long ago, when Lord Ned fought at Pyke and Arya had yet it to be born, it was just the three of them.

“Sansa, we must never show disunity in front of our bannermen,” Catelyn advises. She looks especially tired. Sansa does not want to ask what she must of her beloved mother.

“It is one thing to show disunity and another to speak what is on the mind of every person in the room. Robb, I love you and you are my king, but I will not apologize. Nor will I pretend to trust or even like your wife.”

“Sansa-“

She holds up her hand for silence. “Please, let me finish. I will listen to all you have to say when I am done.”

He nods in agreement.

“Very well. Robb, for all that you’ve done recently, you are very northern. You have not been south. You do not realize what these people are capable of. You underestimate Tywin Lannister and what people will do for money and power. Joffrey will marry Margaery Tyrell. Aunt Lysa will not support the North. Stannis is licking his wounds. Even if he wants to ally with us, he is a kinslayer. He and his witch will kill you the moment they can.

“That leaves one potential ally. Dorne. I drafted a letter offering my hand in marriage to whichever Martell they choose. No, Mother, listen. They hate the Lannisters as much as we do. They do not get along with Reach either. There were rumors in court about Danaerys Targaryen. I’ve thought about it for weeks. It would make sense if they plan to offer their support for her, if and when she arrives. They say she has dragons, Robb. Dragons! By supporting her, Dorne gains revenge and their blood on the throne. If we ally with them, we can help pave their way to the blasted thing.”

Robb remains silent for a long while. He stares out at the river, contemplating all she has said.

“You have the letter?”

She passes the parchment to him. He unfolds it, scanning it quickly. Then, without a word, he dips a quill in ink and begins writing. Sansa’s heart thunders. If he is making corrections and notes, he must be considering it at least.

“Mother, I hate to ask this of you....” he begins. Catelyn sinks further into her chair. With a cheeky smile, Robb continues, “Please fetch Dacey. I have a task for her.”

“Robb?” Sansa asks.

Catelyn pauses, eager to see her daughter’s reaction.

“It’s worth a try,” he says, passing the letter back. His signature is scrawled at the very end of the parchment.

She exhales loudly. “Thank the gods. I was hoping you would see sense.”

“If we do this, it will be difficult to control the men. They want to go home. And I want this to stay a secret in case it does work out, so I can’t tell them why we’re sitting on our asses.” He buries his head in his hands. “And we can’t go home because of the damn Frey’s.”

He takes a deep breathe and runs his hands through his hair. “I’ve fucked up.”

Neither Catelyn or Sansa dare to speak.

Finally, he says, “Go get Dacey, Mother. Send in Uncle Brynden as well.”

The plan is made in as little as two hours. The Blackfish is to travel to the Vale in an effort to convince the men to let his northern army through the gates. He is also given permission to barter with Sansa’s hand in marriage. It also serves as a distraction for the men. They will believe they are waiting on a route home. Granted, they would not have to wait if Robb hadn’t greviously fucked things up, but that would be unladylike to say. Also, it would not aid her plans.

Dacey and two men leave before dusk. Robb does not tell Talisa and Sansa does not tell Aegon. She doesn’t have to.

Sansa sits with Aegon at dinner. It is her intention to spend as much time with him while she can, but her plans are foiled by his contemplative mood. Neither speak. They pick at their food and stare into the fire. It is easy to underestimate his intelligence because of his brawn. Sansa knows that more than anyone. Allowing everyone to think her simple is the only thing that kept her alive. She can’t decide if it is better or worse that he is disappointed in her betrothal.

The next morning, Sansa lies in bed and traces the lines of ceiling. She arrives at the training yard to find Aegon pacing in the mud. The few servants awake at the ungodly hour give him a wide berth. Sansa can’t help but to imagine an irritated dragon ruffling it’s wings.

“You are late,” he snarls, tossing a tourney sword at her. She lets it clatter to the ground.

“I didn’t sleep well,” she says flatly. “Today is archery.”

“Pick it up.”

She obeys. It does not chafe at her pride to do so. Aegon is different. Everything about him is different and it is maddening.

He does not hold back. He lunges at her in a way that is so animalistic she can do nothing but gape at its feral beauty. She twists at the last moment to avoid a sudden death. Her sword is barely raised before he is upon her. Again and again, he beats her into the dirt and against the fence. He never helps her up. He taps his blade against his thigh impatiently, then stabs at her as soon as she reaches her feet.

The sky has turned pale blue when she has had enough. She throws her sword to the side and stomps over to stare up at him.

“What do you want?!” She demands.

His jaw clenches. “You know what I want.”

Her answering laugh is bitter and cruel. “You created the game of thrones and now you must play it. We do not get what they want.”

“I did,” he snarls. “I wanted a fucking continent and I took it. Do not think your shit king of a brother can keep you from me?”

“You think he has any power over my fate? I am doing what I must for my family.”

Aegon grips her chin hard enough to bruise. “Do not martyr yourself for him. Do not make yourself less than what you are for his sake.”

“He is my brother-“

“And you are his sister and look at what he has done! He left you to your enemies, to your father’s murderers. He damned you to a fate he did not want, abandoning his duty as king in the process. Sansa...”

His sword clatters to the ground as he raises his hands to cup her face. His lilac eyes bore into her blue ones.

“Sansa, the gods did not bring me back to save another innocent maiden.”

Those words do her in. They are the words that she has needed to hear. She drops the facade of a lady, breaks free of all her chains. She crushes her lips against his with no hesitation. He still, just for a moment, but then one hand is in her hair and the other is digging into her hip and Sansa is alive. Her days have been dull and heavy, like trudging through the Neck. This is like swimming in a hot spring on a cold fay. This is why she must fight.

A throat clears. Sansa makes herself pull away. Aegon is not dazed or content with lust and love. His eyes are hard and unyielding. They are the eyes of a dragon, the eyes of a conqueror.

Sansa follows Brienne to wash the sweat and mud away. Her day is long and dull, yet she has never felt more invigorated. She only holds her tongue when it is politically astute, not because her mother discreetly shakes her head or her brother flashes pleading eyes. She does not let the disgruntled men under her skin. If they want her gone, they need to do nothing more than throw her out. They don’t, of course.

Jorelle Mormont turns the other way when Aegon visits in the night. He only waits long enough for Grey Wind to leave before his lips are back on hers. She does not give him her maidenhead that night and he does not ask it of her. Instead, as they lie entangled skin to skin, he asks for something infinitely more foreboding.

Aegon asks for her blood.

Sansa slits her palm and watches as her blood drips into an emerald vial.

He leaves before the sun rises and she knows she will not see him again for a long time.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Surprise!

Arya arrives on massive black warhorse with a massive scarred man and an even more massive direwolf. Sansa has Arya in a crushing hug before her feet hit the ground. When her mother and brother arrive, she turns that embrace on the Hound. He doesn’t breathe until she lets him go.

“Thank you,” she whispers.

He doesn’t reply.

The loving, kind reunion is short lived. The girls are at each other’s throats by dinner. Sandor Clegane, freshly bathed and rested, enjoys the show while he savors the first good meal he’s had in weeks. His hosts cast him skeptical looks out of the corner of their eyes all the while. Sansa might have laughed if she weren’t so preoccupied with her sister.

“None of this wouldn’t have happened if you hadn’t told Cersei we were leaving!” Arya screams.

“What would you have had me do?” Sansa asks calmly. She came to terms with her betrayal long ago. Uncle Brandon saw to that. “Go back as a failure? Mother and Septa Mordane raised me to believe that my life would revolve around my husband. I was trying to do my duty.”

“Family, then duty, then honor,” Arya counters.

“And I was told that Joffrey was my new family! Father never loved me like he did you. The North never loved me like they did you. I wanted my new family to love me, Arya.”

“How could you ever want a bunch of cunts like that to love you?”

A strangled noise escapes their mother.

“Arya Stark!” She half screams, half gasps.

Both daughters ignore her.

“You’ll understand when you-“ Sansa begins.

“I’ll never marry,” Arya says darkly.

Robb and Talisa shift in their seats, gazing over at Lady Catelyn. They would rather be on a battlefield than face the coming storm.

The man who passes the sentence swings the sword, Sansa thinks.

“That wasn’t what I was going to say. Robb has ruined that for you anyway” Sansa says. “Mother married you to the Freys, you see, and we might have been able to renegotiate, but with his sudden marriage to-“

“No.” Arya rounds on their audience, her fists clenching. Tell me it’s not so, her wide eyes seem to say. Their hesitation reveals the truth. No one at the table, except for the Hound, has the courage to meet her gaze.

The man who passes the sentence swings the sword.

“Don’t take it personally. He took what I love away too,“ Sansa says. With that, she leaves the room.

Arya finds her in the dead of the night. They talk about Aegon and Clegane and fighting and killing. They talk about Robb and Mother and how it’s all gone to shit.

 

The camp is restless. Reavers are raping and pillaging their home, but sons and brothers are stuck hundreds of miles away from their women. All because their king did not want to marry a Frey. Instead, they look to their princesses. They dote upon Arya. She is a Stark to the bone: grey eyed, dark haired, and as wild as her direwolf. She eats with the soldiers, cooks with the chefs, and runs errands through the camp. Twice she is asked for her hand in marriage. Twice she tells them she shall be a Frey.

They do not love Sansa the same, but they respect her. Some of the lords say she reminds of them her grandfather Rickard, despite the resemblance to her mother. The soldiers say she is as solemn as her father. They bow and kneels as she walks through the camp. A few have given her little carved wolves. Three others made charcoal portraits of herself and her family. She cherishes them all.

“It is a shame Domeric died,” Bolton says. Oddly enough, they have become....well, Lord Bolton is not the sort of man to call someone friend, but the two are closer than any of the other lords and ladies. She respects his cunning and ruthlessness. He respects her intelligence and pragmatism. “You would have made an excellent Lady of the Dreadfort.”

Sansa cocks a brow. “You and your bastard are both unmarried.”

If Lord Bolton were the type of man to snort, he would have. “Do not insult my intelligence. I am well aware that you will be a princess twice over before the year is out.”

“That may not be.”

“May the gods help us if it is not.“

They continue on in silence for a while as they stroll through the maze of tents.

“The men are restless,” she says.

Lord Bolton follows her gaze to where the female soldiers have penned themselves off. Sandbags are piled high to give them some semblance of privacy and protection, though there haven’t been any rapes since the previous week’s fiasco. The Hound had to throw Arya over his shoulder when Robb wouldn’t let her be the one to do the castrating.

“The man who passes the sentence swings the sword!” She had yelled. “Sansa and I voted to cut his cock off.”

Lady Catelyn had nearly fainted.

“You are not men,” Robb had declared.

“Woe to you all if we were,” Sansa had said.

It would be one thing for a younger brother to take his brother’s crown. It would be another for a sister to do it. She is not the sort of woman to inspire great passion; Arya is more the sort. Although the man ultimately chose to go to the Wall after he realized his brothers in arms sided with their sisters, Sansa has not bled and cried with the soldiers on the battlefield and she’d rather not be a queen at all. She would much rather stabilize the North and then have her own keep to run.

“We need a distraction,” Bolton agrees, pulling her out of her reverie.

“Then I can count on your support at the council tomorrow?” She asks.

“Of course,” he replies. “King Robb should have done it the very day after you arrived.”

“Careful. He is still my brother,” she says. She wants to ask if that’s why he’s betraying them. If something so simple as killing Jaime Lannister will be the end of the Red Kings lineage.

Bolton bows in false deference. “I shall speak with Harrion, though I am confident we will find no argument amongst any-“

“PRINCESS! PRINCESS!” Sansa and Lord Bolton turn almost as one. A young squire with crooked teeth skids to a halt behind them. Several men inch further into the path to hear better. The boy doubles over and takes quick, deep breaths. When he can speak again, he does so without pausing for air. “AryasaidforyoutogototheGodswooditsimportantandurgentandifI’mslowshe’llsetherdirewolfonmebutI’macarpetener’s-“

“Don’t worry. I won’t let her set Nymeria on you.”

He visibly deflates. “Thank you, mil- Princess.”

She smiles kindly at the boy, grinning even wider when he blushes. He backs away with mumbled apologies and courtesies. Despite her sister’s violent tendencies, Arya has a knack for drawing good people into her circle. Meanwhile, Sansa’s greatest ally is known as the Leech Lord. Sansa nods a farewell to the closest thing to a friend she has, a traitor, and hurries to the Godswood as gracefully as she can.

 

Arya is lounging on a high, white branch when Sansa arrives. She lands like a cat. Arya’s excited features contrast severely with the sad face of the weirwood tree. She practically bounces over to pull Sansa into the tree’s caress.

“Took you long enough,” Arya says. “I’ve got big news.”

Sansa grips her wrists tight enough to bruise. “What?! What‘s happened?!”

“Well....I was practicing- warging, not water dancing- and Nymeria was with Grey Wind and he was with Robb. A messenger came in all dirty and tired and Robb dipped into a tent to read it. He whispered it all, but you know-“ Arya blushes and looks over her sister’s shoulder. “Wolves have good hearing. Normal speaking is like yelling.”

“What did he say?” Sansa asks, fighting back a sudden onslaught of guilt that always comes whenever Lady is mentioned.

Arya’s grey eyes shine. She leans forward and whispers, “Uncle Brynden and Lord Royce kind of took over the Vale. They’ll let us through the Bloody Gate.”

Sansa’s heart flutters. Her knees wobble. She leans against the tree trunk and lets herself slide down to the bed of scarlet leaves below it.

“I don’t understand it all,” Arya continues. “There was some sort of council or trial or something and Aunt Lysa went mad and there was something about Littlefinger-“

“Is Robb declaring a meeting?” She interrupts. She doesn’t even trust the Gods enough to speak of this so openly.

“Gonna be a dinner in Robb’s solar.”

A weight has been lifted from her shoulders. Home. They can go home! Without worrying about the Freys or fighting through Moat Caitlin or marrying a sickly cousin.

“Sansa, I’ve been thinking. About what you said, about how I need to go to the meetings if I want to make a difference. I think I want to go tonight.”

“That’s excellent, Arya.”

“Jonelle convinced me. She said it’s boring, but- OH! I got so excited I forgot! Lyra caught another raven yesterday.”

A sneer pulled at Sansa’s lips. “Have Nymeria ready tonight. I’m sure we’ll catch something better.”

“That’s what I thought. Come on, Jonelle says I need to look nice if I want them to take me seriously.”

 

————————————————————

 

Aegon had forgotten how massive Westeros is when forced to travel by ground. He remembers the Trident being so much smaller from atop Balerion’s neck, perhaps a two day’s flight from the Vale to the Westerlands. It’s taken him nearly a month to sail east along the Trident, then south to Dragonstone.

The fiery stag banners are strange to behold. The silence is even more unsettling. Before, the songs of dragons that filled the air were accentuated by the symphony of a busy port. The present- or is it the future?- is foreboding. The downcast eyes, the cowed sailors, the grey skies. His home is poisoned. 

Getting into the castle is simple enough. Velaryon bastards are always looking for work. Getting into the caves below is even easier. He learned to walk in these halls. They welcome him back, pleased to have a Targaryen to nurture them with fire and blood once more. The Valyrian ways are forgotten. Their gods would have crushed R’hllor back into the chasms of the Earth they ruled.

Oddly enough, he finds himself yearning for for the trees of the North. They have the same comforting magic that flows through the molten rock of the mountains.

“Do you worship the Seven?”

Aegon startles out of his reverie, hand on his dagger. He glances around wildly before he realizes the voice came from beneath him. A girl, not even waist high, peers up at him with a half dead face.

“No.”

She frowns a little, one brow puckering towards the scaled stone where the left should be. Her sharp gaze turns back down to the courtyard where a priestess leads the morning prayers in front of a bonfire. The congregation stares at it with all the fervor of sycophant sheep.

“I hate religion,” he says scathingly.

“I don’t understand,” the girl admits.

“I hate priests and priestesses and fires and septs. The gods don’t give a shit about any of that as long as they get our blood.”

“So you worship R’hllor then?”

Aegon snorts. “No. All the gods are bloodthirsty. Why do you think the Targaryen words are ‘Fire and Blood’?”

She frowns again. “Shouldn’t it be were? My uncle usurped the Targaryens. It’s why some people called him the Usurper.”

Ah, a little Baratheon. One of his brother’s get. Orys would have liked the little swot.

The girl cringes back from the look he gives her. Children have always been afraid of Aegon, even his own. Except for Maegor, but Maegor had always been the exception to every rule. His sons could have prospered if only they had worked together, if only the fucking septons hadn’t interfered. Visenya was right; they should have burnt it to the ground.

Aegon casts away his demons and lowers himself to sit on the stone balcony. His legs swing through the iron railing like he did as a child. Then, baby dragons had flown up to snap at his feet. Now, hooked nose guards scowl at him.

“Not all of the Targaryens are dead, you know. They say Danaerys hatched three dragons.”

Her eyes grow as wide as dinner plates.

“For true?” She breathes.

“For true. Can you keep a secret? From one child of Valyria to another?”

Her mottled lips press together as she nods. He leans in, whispering conspiratorially.

“I’m here to hatch my own dragons.”

She laughs, a high, light thing that chimes like bells. It makes him think of Sansa and the few times she’d let herself be free enough to laugh. He has to fight to keep from scratching at the ache in his chest.

“Everyone’s looked for dragon eggs here. They never found any.”

“They weren’t Valyrian like we are.”

“I’m not very Valyrian. My ancestors were the storm kings.”

“Your ancestor was the beloved brother of Aegon the Conqueror.” He doesn’t mention that her family had married into the Targaryens over the years. No doubt she knows and has been conditioned to forget it. Fucking fools.

She sits beside him, though she doesn’t let her legs dangle like his. She’s a princess, after all.

“I love to read about Aegon and his sisters. It must have been so extraordinary to fly wherever they wished, whenever they fancied.”

“I’ll make you a promise, Princess. If I find dragon eggs, I’ll give one to you to hatch. It must only be for you, though. Not your father or his witch. Dragons are not slaves.”

“Deal.”

He shakes her tiny hand, then rises to return to his task. He pauses when she calls after him.

“Wait! What’s your name, Ser?”

“My name is Aegon.”

Her answering smile is blinding. Yes, Orys would have liked her very much.

 

————————

 

Deep in the night, in the bowels of Riverrun, Sansa huddles in a broom cupboard. She’s dressed in leathers that Aegon had made for her. She wishes he were beside her. The way he looked at her in leathers made her feel like more of a woman than any gown could. She tightens the grip on her sword to fight off the swoop in her stomach. Missing him does no good. It only distracts her from the task ahead.

Arya’s eyes flutter and roll, turning back to their normal grey. She rises to her feet with a catlike grace.

“They’re moving. Grey Wind’s with us.”

It had been Arya’s idea to see if Grey Wind would follow Nymeria around the castle. He’d apparently been able to sense their desperation.

“Let’s go then.”

They slink out of the cupboard. The halls of Riverrun are quiet and dark. Tywin Lannister chose the night well. The northern armies are consumed by the thought of returning home and the moon is nothing but a sliver behind the heavy autumn clouds. If only Tywin Lannister would drop dead of a heart attack or a stroke or a strike of lightening, but the old gods can’t reach so far south to answer their prayers.

Arya halts at the corner. She raises her right hand, Needle ready in her left. Sansa throws herself against the wall as quietly as she can. Muffled steps echo around the corner, hardly audible above the river so close. Tywin Lannister is too smart by half.

Sansa’s heart pounds in her chest. She breathes in and out. In and out. She isn’t afraid like she had been fighting bandits and soldiers on the road. This is something different, something personal. She’s excited. She wants this to go well. She wants to see their blood spill, wants to watch her brother’s heart break.

Nymeria slinks forward like some sort of massive cat. Arya’s grin is a frightening thing. In a move no human could coordinate, the direwolf rushes forward to meet a grey blur that attacks from across the intersecting corridor.

One man yelps. Another curses. Arya and Sansa swing around the corner, swords raised, in almost perfect synchronicity with the Mormonts.

Five men stand with their swords raised. Two might be Westerling men. The other two are Boltons without a doubt. The fifth is a filthy but healthy Jaime Lannister, the greatest swordsman on the continent with a cheap blade.

Aegon would be cursing her to the seventh hell and back for choosing this fight.

“Surrender and you’ll die quick,” Sansa promises. Her voice isn’t as strong as she’d like it to be.

Grey Wind barks and snaps his teeth. The Kingslayer’s confidence wavers a bit at that. Sansa hasn’t seen the wolves in battle. She hopes she never will, but it must be a truly terrible thing to behold. Fighting is horrible enough as it is.

The Kingslayer ignores her. He orders his men instead.

“Take the girls. I’ve got the wolves.”

It begins in a clash of steel. The Bolton men strike for Sansa and Arya. The betrayal stings, even if it doesn’t come as a surprise. Most of the time, Sansa’s fury is like ice creeping across the fields: brutal and slow. Tonight, she makes her fury smolder in her chest, lets it burn through her veins.

For all that anger, for all her training, these are Northmen they are fighting. They make her work for it. They are men however, and men follow orders.

Wolves do not.

Nymeria recognizes the filthy blonde one as the most dangerous. Grey Wind does what he can, but the passage is narrow and Sansa knows they haven’t hunted together since they were cubs.

But when the tip of Bolton sword pierces Arya’s cheek, even though it’s the tiniest scratch, Nymeria turns on him with a growl. His throat is ripped out before his partner can blink. Sansa takes advantage and slips her blade into the gap beneath his arm.

Grey Wind, too, takes advantage of the chaos. He lunges and Jaime Lannister shrieks. His hand dangles like a loose thread.

He shrieks and cries until Brienne comes from behind and smashes the hilt of her sword into his skull. With barked orders, the Mormonts hold him steady while she ties a strip of cloth at his elbow.

Robb finds them cutting off the Kingslayer’s ruined wrist.

 

Everyone is shocked and Sansa doesn’t understand why. It was all so incredibly obvious. She’d told them the Lannister’s aren’t honorable or just. They would murder a man at his own wedding to win a war. Roose Bolton was the only one that believed her and he had betrayed them for it.

The foreign nurse claims ignorance. She turns her nose up and lies until the scrolls are brought forth. If Arya and Jonelle didn’t shoot down the ravens, then Mormont footmen hunted down the messenger.

Talisa Maegor, born Jeyne Westerling, dies crying.

Arya says Nymeria can’t hear a baby’s heart beating in her belly. Sansa doesn’t know if she’s lying or not. Robb is the one that does it. He’s crying too when he brings the sword down on her neck.

Sansa thought she wanted to see his heart break. She thought it would appease the dark hunger in deep inside her. It only makes it spread and fester.

Arya, despite their mother’s pleading cries, helps Robb with the Westerling men. She slits their throats with a steady hand.

Roose Bolton is last. He spits at Robb’s feet.

“Your sister is the true queen. I’ll die by her hand and no other.”

Robb blanches, but he is an honorable man. He tilts his head at Sansa in a silent query.

She steels her spine as she steps forward, still dressed in her bloody leathers. If she’s going to do this, she’s going to do it right.

“Father always said that the man who passes the sentence swings the sword. I was the one to reveal Lord Bolton’s plot. I was the one to condemn him to death. It is my duty and right to fulfill Lord Bolton’s request.”

Robb clenches his jaw. “Very well. You can use Arya’s dagger.”

“No.”

Several men waver in the audience.

“The Boltons have fought along and against House Stark for thousands of years. They are an ancient and powerful house worthy of bearing the title of a Northman. They are the Blood of the First Men just as I am. I will kill him as our ancestors killed their enemies. Do you object, Lord Bolton?”

The Leech Lord’s pales eyes are alight with something she can’t name.

“No, Your Grace.”

“Then I will meet you in the godswood.”

The yard is silent for one entire beat before it breaks into chaos. Sansa turns on her heel and ignores them all. Her mother rushes to catch up, begging and pleading and crying heresy. Her uncle is not far behind, stating that he will not have such pagan rituals done under his roof. She ignores them all.

Instead, she circles around the mob of soldiers to where the minor lords are crowded against the wall. Lucas Blackwood swallows thickly when she meets his eyes. He knows what she needs. He hands his knife over without a word.

She twists it in her hands as she crosses the yard to the Godswood. Nymeria and Arya’s close presence clear the path quite effectively. It’s a very old, very plain obsidian blade borne handed down from Blackwood to Blackwood over the centuries. It isn’t bronze, but it’s dragonglass and it’s sharp. It’s of the North.

Lord Bolton kneels beside her at the base of the weirwood tree. It isn’t Winterfell. It’s more of a garden than a godswood. The air is thick with tension and the crowded bodies and something far older.

The lord and his executioner stare up at the weirwood’s sad face for a moment.

“Would you like your bastard legitimized?” She asks. Her voice carries easily through their little clearing.

His thin lips press together. “No. He will desecrate my house. I would rather it end with me.”

She nods. “Do you have any last words or requests?”

He looks up at her for the first time. His face, usually so cold, softens into amusement and curiosity.

“Is your Aegon really the Conqueror?”

“Yes.”

“You swear it on the old gods?”

“Yes.”

He throws his head back and laughs, bearing the soft skin of his throat.

“Send me to my forefathers, girl. I’ll be cheering you on from the grave.”

Roose Bolton dies with a smile on his face.

The weirwood cries red sap until the sliver of the moon is at its highest point.

 

———————

 

Deep in the night, in the bowels of Dragonstone, dragons sing


	5. Chapter 5

Under the sliver of the moon,

a mother says to her sons, “soon.”

a father says to his daughters, “soon.”

a brother asks his brother, “why?”

and softest of them all, one child begs another, “please.”

 

————————

 

Sansa gazes up at the full moon, already visible in the twilight, and sulks. A quarter hour of her very own to think about dresses and wolves and fathers and men. Prince Oberyn is handsome, intelligent, and lethal. He comes with ships and soldiers and a thirst for vengeance. There’s not much more she could ask for in a husband. The Smalljon is kind and fierce and would please the North. Same for Lucas Blackwood. Cousin Robyn in the Vale would offer riches and fresh soldiers. She would be closer to home, too.

She doesn’t want any of them. None of them want her. Not for her sorry skill with a sword or the stories she likes to tell in the woods or the dreams she likes to weave in the dark.

Uncle Brandon would tell her to fuck them all, take Robb’s crown, and go home. Uncle Brandon’s wildness took him to an early grave. Father would say to do her duty, but for all his caution, he is dead too.

The pack is dying. There are only three of them left, Robb and Arya and Sansa, all young and starved for flesh. Winter is coming for House Stark. Hopefully, with any luck, they might at least die in the North. A sennight of riding will bring the army to the Bloody Gate, and beyond it, home.

“Princess, will you be attending supper?” Her captain asks.

By right of conquest, the Dreadfort and its men have fallen to her. She won’t keep it. She’ll dole it out when the time comes, but for now, she has command of the second largest army in the North. It helps that Bolton respected her, and she him. His generals and lieutenants did not hesitate to the bend their knees as they might have for Robb.

“I suppose,” she sighs. “Escort me?”

Wylde allows her to loop her arm into his. They wind their way through the maze of the camp in relative silence. Soldiers kneel or bow or lift their tankards as they pass. The North still doesn’t love her like they do Arya. Sansa still isn’t a woman to inspire great passion. They no longer whisper things of the South behind her back, no longer cast doubt on her Mother’s heritage. Sansa is a Stark, through and through. She likes to think there’s a bit of Tully left. Certainly she is loyal to her family above all, but what is duty? Who cares for honor?

 

The gods did not bring me back to save another innocent maiden.

 

Robb hosts a banquet under the shield of a mountain. The terrain has become steep and uneven. It makes for slow traveling but it means they are growing closer to the Eerie and after, home.

Sansa takes a seat between Robb and Oberyn Martell. He and three of his daughters had arrived in response to Sansa’s proposal nigh on a fortnight ago. While they do not avoid one another, they do not seek one another out. A wolf and viper trapped in an odd dance. Neither of them are eager to do their duty, to chain themselves to a person on the other side of the continent, on the other side of life. Sansa isn’t a child. She’s grown into a strong beautiful woman, but he is a father to eight daughters. Family is something different to him.

“Princess, how are you this evening?” He asks, ever the gentleman. Prince Oberyn would never hurt her, but he doesn’t want her.

 

I wanted a fucking continent and I took it.

 

“I will not marry you,” she hears herself say.

She’s thought about saying it, thought about telling everyone to go fuck themselves, but she hasn’t and for the life of her she doesn’t know why. It feels good. It feels right.

The Prince, to his credit, does not seem to care. Oberyn Martell beams a wide, genuine smile. “I wondered when the wolf would show her fangs. I was quite disappointed.”

“I won’t do it,” she says louder, more confident. “I won’t make myself into something less than I am.”

His brows raise. “Is that why? Seven hells, of all the reasons not to marry me, that’s the last one. I would never make you less than you are. I thought it would be because of this Targaryen you resurrected.”

“I didn’t-...it doesn’t matter.”

“But he is why, is he not? You love him.”

She meets his viper gaze. “He made me love myself. That’s why.”

The Prince of Dorne stares at her for a long time. Finally, he lifts his cup and holds it high.

“To ourselves, then,” he says softly. “To never making ourselves less than what we are.”

When their cups are drained, he leans in conspiratorially.

“I can’t help but to find myself relieved. I confess I am more drawn to your brother. He’s infinitely less terrifying.”

Sansa bites her cheek to keep from giggling. “Please don’t wait to seduce him in private. It would be-“

Suddenly, Robb and Arya bolt to their feet, blades drawn. Half the table rises. The direwolves howl a loud, excited call that raises the hair on the back of her neck.

Something answers.

Something sings back, so wretched, so desperate. Like starving children from bowels of the seventh hell.

Rushing footsteps, clanking metal, then a guard emerges from the trees. He sinks to his knees. Everyone leans forward to better hear him, the lowly man that heralds their doom.

“Your Grace, it’s...I can’t...”

Another screech pierces the night. His eyes widen, glossed over in wonder.

“Dragons,” he whispers.

Sansa is frozen. Her boots, her heart, are like lead. She doesn’t dare to hope. He is in Essos, helping his descendent take back their land. He is far away. Sacking cities in the desert. Visiting silver haired women in cities. It can’t be him.

Instinctively, she reaches for her big brother. The one that always comforted her, always protected her. He will know.

But he doesn’t. Robb is staring at her with his mouth agape. They all are, the whole lot of them.

The thing calls out again. Closer. It’s terrible voice echoes against the trees. It’s lonely, frightened, like a lost child. Her heart lurches back into action. It beats loud and slow, chanting it’s own song in return. She finds herself drawn to that strange voice in the trees. Strong arms try to hold her back, but she is all sharp elbows and steel toes.

It’s him she sees first. Tall and broad with his white hair braided back. Black armor, a plain sword on his hip. His eyes are the only vulnerable thing about him. He stares at her the same way he did when he walked out of the fire. Like she is the only thing in the world he knows.

Something hot and hard hits her in the face, startling her back. A loud squawk rings through her ears.

Aegon laughs.

“You’re being rude,” he teases, inclining his head.

She follows his gaze to find a dragon. A dragon! A dragon so spindly, so fierce, all talons and teeth and viper green eyes, hisses at her. It flaps its pale wings, once, twice, then flies a little loop.

“Well. Tell him he’s beautiful.”

Aegon’s voice is closer than it had been. She can’t bring herself to turn around.

“You are beautiful,” she whispers to the dragon. “I’d say you look like twilight, but you put it to shame.”

It’s true. The beast is the softest shade of pink and blue and purple, with white claws and wingtips and horns. Never again will there be something so wondrous. He chirps in his raspy screech and does another little loop. Sansa follows his bright form as he careens back into the tall, thin trees of the Vale.

She turns to look at Aegon. She drinks in his tall, muscled frame like a starved woman.

“I thought we would be old when we saw each other again,” she says.

He squeezes her chin between his thumb and forefinger. “And I told you that I wouldn’t let anything keep you from me.”

“You also said you love nothing more than war.”

She immediately regrets her words when his lilac eyes flash with fire. He releases her face, only to dig his fingers into her bicep. She stumbles to keep up with him as he drags her to Robb’s table. Several lords step forward, their blades half drawn.

“You are a shit king, Robb Stark. Brandon Snow would have slaughtered you and put your crown on your sister. Be grateful that I don’t give a shit. I conquered six kingdoms once. It would be tedious to do so again. I’ll let you keep your crown. I’ll even win this war for you. In return, you will leave Sansa and our children out of your games. The first person who dares will be reduced to dragon dung. Do I make myself clear?”

“Unhand my sister, Ser, or I will-“

“The only person that separate me from Sansa is Sansa. Think about how much I loved war, boy, and think about all that I would do for her. I will burn this continent to the fucking ground.” He turns to Sansa, his grip loosening the slightest bit. “Have your affections changed?”

“No.”

“Then you are mine.”

Indignation startles her out of her stupor. “Then you are mine.”

He rolls his eyes. “Yes, yes, you are my fierce equal in all but looks. Come.”

“Where are you taking my daughter?!” Catelyn Stark cries, lovely face twisted in anguish. 

Aegon curses. “I’m going to claim my wife. Thoroughly.”

Sansa nearly swoons at the sudden rush his dark promise brings.

“Before that...RIÑA!”

He squeezes Sansa’s hand, meeting her gaze almost guiltily.“I’ve adopted a stray. I hope you don’t mind.”

A tiny girl with long, dark hair emerges from the forest. The little dragon draped in her arms is a mirror of the greyscale scarring half of her face. Oberyn Martell dissolves into laughter.

Aegon glares down at Shireen Baratheon. “Be graceful. Do not cower. And do not seek me out, do you understand?”

“Yes, Uncle,” she says, staring down at the beast.

“Iksā iā jelmāzma hen perzys,” Aegon says, tapping her under the chin. He stares deep into her eyes. “Do not cower.”

_You are a storm of fire._

Sansa thinks on his words as he leads her through the trees. She doesn’t know how he knows where her tent is. She doesn’t care, really. She is his and he is hers and nothing will ever tear them apart. If Shireen Baratheon is a storm, then Sansa and Aegon are ice and fire. The world doesn’t stand a chance.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all so much for reading!


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hi! I was inspired to do a oneshot of Aegon meeting Danerys! Enjoy. :)

Daenerys Targaryen is stunning. She is every man’s dream: the body of a woman and the face of a maiden. It’s that spine made of Valyrian steel that ruins their hopes. Sansa immediately wants to like her. Unfortunately, the Dragon Queen isn’t inclined to like any of them. Her purple eyes glower at their gathered party.   
Oberyn had spread word of Aegon’s rebirth and the three dragons he’d hatched. It had tempted Danaerys to expedite her return home, a feat capable only because of Shireen’s fleet. Taking Dragonstone had been the most terrifying experience of Sansa’s life. Melisandre of Asshai had sent shadow and fire after shadow and fire. Balerion, Aegon’s red monstrosity of dragon, melted the shadows while Aegon walked through the flames. The witch had aged terribly when she died. Stannis had wretched.   
  
The Baratheon men now follow Shireen and her dragon, Maz -a shortened form of the mouthful of a Valyrian word for storm. They practically worship their princess. They once hated and feared her greyscale. Now, they say it was a sign from the gods. They’ve even taken to calling her dragon Greyscale when they think noone is listening.    
  
“I hadn’t quite believed them,” Danaerys says, eyeing her ancestor. She speaks with an odd, lilting accent. “I thought I was the conqueror reborn, once.”  
“That is very arrogant of you,” Aegon remarks. Sansa digs her elbow into his ribs. Aegon smirks down at her. “But it is very arrogant. I only have one equal and you are not even that in looks.”  
  
“Yes. I am told a Stark was given a dragon," Danaerys interjects. She queen doesn’t sound pleased by it.   
  
Sansa pastes on a pleasing smile. She won't say this all went to shit because of North. “My sister and I decided on the name Winter. I almost named her Moondancer for-“  
  
“For Baela Targaryen’s defense of Dragonstone. I know my family history, Stark.”   
  
They all study the painted table before them. Sansa likes Dragonstone. It’s stoicism reminds her quite a bit of Winterfell. She might have been happy here before Aegon put the idea of another mountain in her head. She hasn’t been able to stop fantasizing about the turbulent seas surrounding Pyke. Nothing could touch her there. Taking it could be quite a lot of fun, too.  
  
“How did you manage to get this table to last so long, Uncle?” Shireen asks, speaking for the first time. The Onion Knight hovers protectively at her side. The princess won't admit it, but she's afraid of Danaerys. Sansa is too. They are all too familiar with mad queens.   
  
“Blood magic,” Aegon shrugs.   
  
Danaerys’s eyes shine with a light that runs a shiver down Sansa’s back. She’s seen that look before. Aegon squeezes her knee. He’s seen it too.   
  
Fuck it, she thinks. This is all going to go to shit anyway.   
  
“You say you know your family history?” Sansa asks softly. “I know mine. The Starks have ruled the North for eight thousand years. We gave up our crown to avoid bloodshed, but we won’t do the same again. We’ve suffered too much under foreign queens and kings. You have our support in this war, but we will not kneel.”  
  
“She’s right,” Aegon says. “Everyone remembers Torrhen Stark, but none bother to think of his bastard brother. Brandon Snow could have killed two of our dragons before the third awoke. He could have killed Visenya and taken Vhagar for himself. He was fierce enough for it. I feared the Starks, Danaerys. I feared the destruction we would sow. The North is tied to the Starks the way Valryia was once tied to us. The land will not give them up easily.”  
  
Queen Danaerys sits up straighter. "You would abandon me? Your own descendant?"   
  
Shireen looks up sharply.  
  
"Our interests are not aligned," Aegon shrugs. "I have no wish to rule over these sycophantic fools again. We are the blood of the dragon, Danaerys. Take what you want, just as I did.""And if I want all seven kingdoms? If I will not settle for five?" Aegon smiles. "Then the dragons will dance and ice and fire will clash in a song for the ages. Choose wisely."   
  
He rises. Sansa and Shireen follow suit. He pauses in the doorway, glancing around the chamber with soft, violet eyes.   
  
"Sometimes I wonder if it was a mistake. These halls are too quiet. This castle used to be alive with the music of children and dragons. Rhaenys and I used to sit on the courtyard balcony and tease the hatchlings with our swinging legs while Visenya beat grown men into the dirt. Make it so once again, Danaerys. Make our family what it used to be. We were loved just as much as we were feared."   
  
"I will return." All four of them turned to stare at Shireen. She did not waver under their gazes. Instead, she faced Danaerys with all the fire of a storm.   
"Prove that you are better than them. Prove that you can be what we were meant to be and I will return. I have had the very best fathers, but I have never had a mother. I would very much like to have one." She turns on her heel and strides down the hall. Danaerys watches her, her violet eyes shining with something other than hunger. Or a different kind, perhaps.   
  
Sansa makes a sudden decision. She pushes a little at Aegon. He raises a brow, but obeys all the same.  
  
"I could have been the Queen of Winter," Sansa says when she and the Dragon Queen are alone. "I could have taken my brother's crown, settled myself in Winterfell, and been the first queen in the history of the Seven Kingdoms. I didn't, but I am still feared. I will still be remembered. They will whisper about the Red Wolf and her conqueror for generations to come."  
  
"What are you saying? That I should stop? That I should simply let them be?" Danaerys looks out onto the grey sea, where her white dragon dives into the sea. "I loved my husband. Drogo and I loved one another as you and Aegon do. We loved our son so much it nearly frightened me. What if you lost them, Sansa Stark? What would you do if they took your husband and son away?"  
  
That was simple. She wouldn't be Sansa. Or she would be a very different Sansa than the one she is now. She would be everything Uncle Brandon would have been if he had lived. She would turn into a feral wolf, slathering at the mouth and howling at even the hint of blood."I'm not saying you should forgive them. Never. Kill them all. Burn their castles to the ground. Let them know that you are a dragon, and a woman scorned besides. Take everything from them and then leave them to their suffering. Make a home. Fill this place with all the girls that suffered as we did. Teach them to love themselves as we were never taught."  
  
Danaerys turns to look at her. Sansa is once again struck by how very beautiful she is. "I think I might like you Sansa Stark."  
  
"I think I might like you as well. Until next time, Danaerys Targaryen."  
  
  
  
  
Aegon finds Sansa watching Winter chase Balerion amongst the stars. He leans back against the ship's railing to study her face.   
  
"Egg. What would you do if someone took me from you?" She asks in a whisper.   
  
< He frowns. "I would be everything Maegor was and more. I would make the Field of Fire look like child's play. There wouldn't be anyone in Westeros left to mourn what it was."   
  
She wraps her arms around his waist, sighing contentedly. 

 

**Author's Note:**

> I know Aegon was cremated at Dragonstone, but I lied for this.  
> 


End file.
